Joe recovered first. And with a lot more conviction.
No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't quite manage his smile, faint though it was. "What makes you believe I have changed my feelings regarding marriage?"
Calm, cool.
Light.
She would have backed down, too.
Had there not been the distinct thread of disappointment in his voice.
The hell with that. She wasn't the one who'd decided to drop off the face of the earth. "It's not like it's a secret, Joe. Half the agency's been talking about your girlfriend. That, and the fact that you seem to be spending all your free time with her lately."
"What?"
"You heard me."
"I heard you. I simply do not believe." He raked his hands through his hair, folding his arms as they came down. "You believe this? That I am keeping a woman from you?"
He wasn't acting. Lord knew, she'd seen him do it often enough. This wasn't it. Joe was truly stunned. Not to mention pissed.
That dark brown sharpened, narrowed. "Well? Do you?"
Damn, but this was dicey.
But why?
More than a little ticked herself—with him—she finally shrugged. "What am I supposed to think? We haven't been to dinner or a movie in months. You never drop by my apartment anymore, and you're never at home when I stop by yours. You've stopped returning my personal calls, and you sure as hell haven't been instigating any. We've taken vacation together for the last six years. But this year? You put in for leave and didn't even bother to t-tell m-me."
Great. Now she sounded like a shrew. At the very least, a jilted lover—or her mother. To make matters worse, her eyes were starting to burn.
Please God, no tears. Not now. Not in front of him.
But it was too late.
Her breath came out in a shaky rush, and then, she was in his arms. She wasn't sure how she'd gotten there, but she was grateful nonetheless. Because Joe was holding her, soothing her. The same husky lilt he'd used to calm her mother washed over her, quieting her quaking nerves as his hands smoothed her hair down her back.
It should have helped. But it just made it all worse.
The tears had turned into a steady drizzle. No matter how hard she tried to stem them, she couldn't.
"Teresa, please. You must stop."
Her hiccup added insult to injury, and they streamed faster.
He tipped her chin up and captured her watery gaze. "Querida, I swear to you, you are the only woman in my life."
Somehow, that managed to pierce the ache.
The stream finally slowed, then ebbed altogether. She swallowed the lump of pain, guilt, and God knew what else that was lodged in her throat. "I-I don't understand. If you're not seeing someone seriously, then what's been happening to us?"
His stark stare only added to her confusion.
And the ache. The one inside him. It was raw, piercing. She watched as it consumed those deep brown pools she loved so much until she was afraid it was going to consume him. That ache was more than a reflection of her pain.
Much more.
"Joe?"
He closed his eyes, then opened them. "Please. I need…time." They were still tortured as he brought his fingers to her face to smooth the remaining tears from her cheeks. "I must ask you to give this to me. But you must know…whatever has been wrong between us these weeks past, it has nothing to do with you. I swear it." Both hands came up to cup her cheeks. "You believe me, sí?"
She did.
Joe had never lied to her. Not outright, anyway. But something was definitely wrong. Those brown pools were now nearly black with pleading. Whatever was wrong—and something absolutely was—it was consuming him.
As much as she wanted to press it, she didn't. He'd asked for time. Joe, who rarely asked anything of her, and nearly always gave.
She would wait.
She nodded. "Okay, I won't push it. And, yes, I believe you."
The relief that swamped him was almost overwhelming. Hell, the man's body actually trembled with it. And something else.
Exhaustion.
It reached deep inside those smoky depths. Past the last few nights. Past the last few cases. Whatever was wrong, it was eating away at Joe's very core. Unfortunately, he wasn't ready to share. There wasn't a thing she could do except be there for him when he was. She drew back slightly. "We should get some sleep. I'm supposed to have dinner with Agent Daniels later, remember? See if his niece heard anything else on the syringes at school. And who knows when Eddie's going to call on you again."
He nodded. "Agreed."
"Good. You take the bed."
"No."
"Don't be ridiculous. You hate that pull-out sofa. The mattress is much too small for you and much too flimsy."
He shook his head.
"Fine, then we'll share."
He tensed.
She didn't care. He was too damned tired and, frankly, so was she. "Good Lord, Joe, it's not like we haven't slept together before. I swear I won't hog all the covers. This time."
It must have worked, because his smile quirked. He shook his head as he traced a finger down her cheek. "I appreciate the offer, but I have calls to make. You go ahead. Take your rest. We cannot be certain what the night will bring for either of us."
He had a point.
"Fine. But if you finish your calls, and the pull-out drives you nuts—"
"I will remember."
"You'd better."
On impulse, she tiptoed up and pressed her lips to the stubble on his jaw.
She swore she felt him suck in his breath before she fled. She knew she was holding hers when she reached the bedroom. She closed the door and slumped against it as the relief she'd been holding back finally broke through the dam.
He wasn't involved. Not with a fiancée and not with a steady girlfriend. Heck, not even with his usual, one-night stand.
Then it hit her.
If Joe wasn't seeing another woman, let alone having sex with one, then what did that say about the desire she thought she'd felt radiating from him in Eddie's guest room earlier that day? Was it possible she hadn't imagined it?
Cinnamon and mocha.
The earthy scents wafted in, caressing her face before they slipped into her lungs. Subtle, smoky…and very Joe.
Impossible.
Tess burrowed deeper into the warmth of the comforter. For one thing, Joe would have simply slipped into bed beside her, rolled over and gone to sleep. Well, he hadn't.
So why was she still smelling him?
She forced her eyes open slowly, cautiously—and drew that distinctive scent deep into her lungs. He was there all right, standing less than two feet from the side of the bed, that impressive chest of his sporting that ever-shrinking blue T-shirt, with a pair of gray jogging shorts now hugging his hips.
He was watching her.
"Joe?" Had something happened?
He stiffened and retreated a pace, turned away.
"Please—"
He stopped, obviously reluctant as he faced her again. "I beg your pardon. I did not mean to stare."
"It's all right." She pushed the covers down. "Hop in."
He considered the space she'd created for several long moments, then the extra pillow, before finally nodding. Moments later, she was questioning the invitation—not to mention her sanity—as he peeled his T-shirt off and slid in beside her.
The heck with his shirts, the queen-sized mattress pulled a disappearing trick of its own, somehow whittling down to a twin as she tossed the sheet over them. She shifted, trying to get comfortable. Unfortunately, her elbow slipped off the pillow and she ended up plastered halfway across his sculpted chest. "Excuse me."
"Allow me—"
But as he moved, she blew it again.
This time they ended up in tangle of limbs. Joe on top, her on the bottom, his face inches from hers. The air evaporated from her lungs as she became aware of the fact that her breasts were now squashed firmly i
nto the concrete wall of his chest.
For some reason, he didn't shift. He just looked into her eyes.
Like that afternoon at Eddie's, time seemed to come to an agonizing halt. She was unable to move. To breathe. And he just…looked.
"Joe?"
The whisper seemed to be what he needed, because he moved then. Slowly. Except…he was moving toward her, not away.
His mouth was moving toward her. Closer and closer until, unlike that afternoon, he was there. His lips captured hers. Gentle, warm, smooth. The kiss that followed was intoxicatingly light, but so thorough it thrummed straight to her core. Desire surged, swift and pulsing, rapidly overtaking her senses. She was dimly aware of the sobering voice of reason and quickly tamped it out, raking her fingers up the thick muscles of Joe's arms as she succumbed to heady smoke in his kiss.
Why not?
She wanted this, and there was no longer any doubt in her mind that he wanted it too. But again, the whisper of sanity invaded her brain.
This was Joe. He was her friend.
Her best friend.
A moment later the kiss shifted, deepened. Seared.
She moaned with the headiness of it all—the headiness of him. Damn it, she was through questioning why things had changed between them. They simply had. Or maybe this deep, wanton craving had been there all along, lying dormant for over six years. Simmering beneath the friendship.
All she knew for certain was that it wasn't simmering now. It was a raging, liquid fire that all but consumed her. Joe consumed her.
She gave herself up to the inferno as her nightshirt seemed to disintegrate beneath his insistent fingers, shuddering as he peeled her panties down her legs, and then gasping as he replaced the silk with his hot, seeking mouth.
Sweet heaven above—
The rest was incinerated within the flames as his hands clamped about her thighs, anchoring her to him in the mindless moments that followed. She raked her fingers into his hair, holding on to him just as tightly, whispering his name over and over again as she gave herself up to his gift. The intensity of it all was building so rapidly, almost to the point of pain. She was begging him now, pleading with him.
She needed him. On her. In her.
But as Joe shifted and rose up over her, a piercing cacophony rent the sweltering air, and it would not shut up. It took several seconds for the fog of her brain to recognize what had caused it, and when she finally did, she groaned.
The alarm.
Ignore it!
She tried. Desperately. But she couldn't. The blaring pulses were too damned loud and too damned obnoxious—and they both knew from painful experience they would not die off on their own. She'd have to murder the source herself.
She pulled away to do just that, slamming her palm over her phone with enough force to bury it, and any lingering sound waves, six feet under.
Satisfied, she turned back to Joe in the blissful silence.
Except…he wasn't there.
She blinked, then blinked again. Joe definitely wasn't there. But her nightshirt and panties were…and she was still wearing them.
The dream had come just as he feared. Like a demon in the night, eager to extract its pound of flesh when he least expected. Then again, perhaps he had.
Had he not touched her today? Not once, nor even twice. But more times than he should ever dare?
And so, the dream had come.
Joe sighed, turning off the kitchen faucet as the bleating of Teresa's alarm cut through the bedroom's paper-thin walls. He picked up the hand towel as she severed the sound, carefully drying his hands and reddened forearms as he considered the dilemma of his own recent slumber. The problem was not so much the dream he had had, for it would come whether Teresa was near or not. True, her proximity tended to make it more real, more piercing. But this, too, he had grown used to.
No, it was that other damnable issue.
He refolded the towel and tucked it neatly over the bar used to open the oven, then turned to confront the refrigerator.
The calendar hanging upon it.
His feelings for Teresa, as well as any fallout from those, he could handle—for he had been doing so for years. But this?
What was he to do about this?
Unable to stop himself, he reached out, spreading his fingers wide as he traced them down the glossed paper with its deceptively serene flock of flamingos. As his hand drew closer to the seam beneath, he stopped, his fingertips moving out to hover a fraction of an inch above the starkly numbered squares. He dare not touch them.
Though why, he knew not.
Surely, the ache could grow no worse?
Perhaps not. But he had long since learned it was best not to tempt heaven—or hell.
His breath escaped slowly, the last of the dream ebbing with it as he studied the dwindling days. He had not yet been able to reach his brother. Hence, he possessed no firm answer on which to base his decisions. Would that he could confide in Teresa, for he had always respected her counsel. But this time, he could not.
Had he not hurt her enough already?
Unintentional though the pain had been, it was there. A pain he had inflicted. Deep in his heart, he had known this, and for some time. But somehow he had succeeded in ignoring his crime. Until today.
Those tears.
Tears that had been caused by his actions.
He closed his eyes against the guilt. He had long since suspected that Teresa cared more deeply for him than even she knew. His saving grace had always been her own heart. She had not wanted to face the depth of her feelings; therefore, she had not. Why should she? Her own mother and sister had shown by examples too numerous to mention what came of physical love for Teresa's heart to ignore the lessons.
And he?
He had abused her fears—as well as her heart.
If she only knew the extent, she would hate him.
But she would not. He would see to it. She would never learn the depths to which he had sunk. For he might well be forced to do so again, and soon.
Sí, he knew full well that when the next man came along who saw this woman for the jewel she was, he would encourage her to go to him and sate herself. Always knowing that when the physical desire for this other man faded, she would return to him—even if she never truly came home.
To be this close to her was his curse and his salvation.
It was enough. It must be.
He looked at the calendar, scoring the dwindling dates into his mind as he worked to convince his heart. But as he drew back, he felt her presence behind him and spun about. Teresa. She was in the dining area beyond the kitchen, bending across the tiny table to retrieve the bowl of grapes he had left out.
Why had she not greeted him?
No matter. "Buenas tardes."
She flinched—and dropped the bowl.
He frowned as her soft curse drifted into the kitchen, the fear gripping his heart squeezing tighter as she reached for the grapes again.
Something was not right.
He was certain as she lifted the bowl, for he would swear her fingers were locked to the rim. Madre de Dios, did she know of the dream?
Had he spoken in his sleep? Or, worse, cried out for her?
Of their own will, his feet began to move, one before the other. Slowly but surely, no doubt drawn by the chilling thread of dread that pulled him closer to her. Try as he might, he could not stop. The need to know was too great. He reached her, retrieving the bowl with one hand as he tipped her chin with the other. "Are you well?"
She nodded quickly. Perhaps too quickly.
"F-fine. I'm just—ah—a little clumsy tonight. Guess it's a good thing I don't have to report to the hospital." Her smile was stiff as she pulled the bowl from his grasp. "I'll take care of this." A moment later she was gone, abandoning him for the kitchen.
No, something was not right.
But it was equally clear she did not wish to discuss it. Who was he to insist? Especially now. He followed her i
nto the kitchen slowly, reluctant to intrude on whatever ailed her. As she finished returning the grapes to the refrigerator, he saw that her smile had returned as well, and was still missing its usual brilliance.
"So…did you get your calls made?"
Again, the swift fist of fear. For a moment he suspected she had heard the message he had left on his brother's machine. He had taught her enough Spanish through the years that she would have easily understood his words.
But as he looked closely into her face, his breathing returned to rights. The sheen to her eyes, the slight puffiness at the outer corners. The flush at the base of her neck where the crisp collar of her white sleeveless shirt met her skin. Sí, the signs of recent slumber were present. She had been safely sleeping when the alarm had gone off.
"Joe?"
"Sí, I made my calls—took one for you as well."
"Me?"
He nodded. "The subpoena you put forth on Hernández' mobile phone was approved. You were right. He was not speaking to his uncle the night you met him in the pharmacy."
"Who was it?"
"As of yet, we do not know. However, the originator of the technician's text, as well as the recipient of his call, used the same burner phone. One that was located a mere three blocks from the Customs and Border Protection office in San Ysidro when it was used."
"Pay dirt."
He nodded.
She leaned back against the counter, sighing as she pushed the weight of her curls past her shoulders. He was forced to clench his fist against the temptation to touch that came as he watched several tendrils slip back to caress her cheek. "I'd rather not canvass the area. If our guy's CBP, he's bound to notice someone snooping around." Hell, they couldn't even access the official records to see who was manning the booth Eddie had directed Joe to pass through, since whoever they were after might be alerted.
All they could do was wait for the next opportunity.
"Agreed."
"What about Eddie? Has he told you anything about the next border run?"
For a moment, he almost told her, but decided not to.
She was to meet Agent Daniels soon to discuss the syringes. Better she go there. It was the lesser of two evils.
Just Beyond Reach Page 9